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Sharpe's Gator

Epilogue



March 1 -The Mediterranean.

The short man stood at the prow of the Inconstant, looking out to sea towards the faint dark smudge on the horizon that told of approaching land. The savor of the chill salt air made him forget his stomach pains. He had promised he would be back before spring was over, and now he made good his promise. He adjusted his bicorn hat, pulled his greatcoat closer around him, and he smiled.

The monster was out of his cage.

The most dangerous man in Europe was free.

It would be good to be back in France.

March 15 - Mobile Bay.

Sharpe stood at the prow of the Statira, looking out to sea towards a shore far out of sight. The savor of the chill salt air made him forget his many aches and pains. He had promised he would be back before spring was over, and he now he made good his promise. The wind ruffled his hair as he pulled his greatcoat closer around him, and he smiled.

He was going home at last.

Home to Lucille.

It would be good to be back in France.

With the coming of the dawn, the fleet weighed anchors and pulled out of Bon Secours Bay. The wind bellied their sails as they came around the head of Heron Island, heading for the open ocean, prepared for the long Atlantic crossing. As the fleet began to pick up momentum, a lookout in the Statiras mainmast called a warning, a sail had appeared out of the dimness of the western horizon. As it drew near, they could see that it was a sloop. It flew the flag of the Baratarian pirates, and below it, a flag of truce. Then it hoisted a series of signal flags. From where he stood on the fore deck, Captain Swaine put his telescope to his eye to read them, and then made an exclamation of surprise. He turned to Sharpe.

"Major Sharpe, they are asking if you are on board."

"Wha-"

"Shall I acknowledge?"

Sharpe nodded, and the Statiras signal flags were raised in response. He watched in confusion as the sloop drew alongside, then he saw a familiar form standing at the prow, the smiling, darkly handsome face, broad-brimmed hat and gaudy sash of Jean Lafitte. The pirate removed his hat and bowed with an elaborate flourish.

"Bonjour, Mon ami! Comment allez-vous?"

Grinning, Sharpe stood at the railing and called down.

"Lafitte! What the hell are you doing here?"

Lafitte laughed.

"I have a gift for you, my friend, a gift from ma belle Marie, that you might not forget her! She told me that if I failed to deliver it to you before you left, she would put a spell on me and shrivel my manhood to the size of a peanut! I cannot afford to risk such a calamity. Thank the Virgin I caught you in time!"

He took something out of his sash, about a foot long, flat and light brown, and hurled it through the air. Sharpe caught it.

It was a sheath, a sheath to hold the big fighting knife that now belonged to him. He took the blade out of his belt where he had been keeping it; and it slid easily into the mouth of the sheath, a perfect fit. On the back, stitched in silver thread, were the initials "ML." The sheath was of finely tanned leather, cut from the hide of one of the great reptiles that swam in the bayous of this land, an alligator. But he knew it was much more than just any alligator.

It was Sharpes gator.

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